


Every version of you

by largoindminor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2003!sam, 2016!dean, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-13 23:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7142444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/largoindminor/pseuds/largoindminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To get him out of the way and prevent him from interfering with the war against the Darkness, a host of angels send Dean back in time to 2003. Against his better judgement, Dean pays his <em>younger</em> younger brother a visit</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every version of you

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this during s11 but never posted here, oops! also [here](http://sasquatchandleatherjacket.tumblr.com/post/141639671347).

Dean knows he shouldn’t be here. Knows there’s a million reasons why what he’s about to do is one of the dumbest fucking things he’s ever done (and christ, that’s saying something) but he just can’t seem to help it.

It’s 2003. Two-thousand- _fucking-_ three. Those feathery assholes shot him back in time just to get him out of the way their epic battle against the darkness, and now Sam-  _Sam-_ is there, thirteen years in the future, trying to fight off not only the darkness, but Lucifer, and whatever other angelsdemonsmonsters have been recruited in his absence. Alone. _Alone._ Not even Cas (damn him) to keep Sam safe and all Dean can do is sit helplessly and wait to be zapped back to the future.

And he never meant to do this, never intended to be so monumentally reckless, but the whiskey’s going down so easy, and the coast is just an hour drive from where he is, and damn if he isn’t craving those starburst eyes and stupid floppy hair.

He knows Sam isn’t in the apartment, the one he’ll share with Jess next year, but it’s easy enough to stroll onto a college campus and find out where someone lives, down to the building and floor. From there, it’s just a matter of knocking on a few doors.

Turns out it’s the last door, end of the hall where the singles are. Dean leans against the door jam and knocks, feels his stomach swirl with anticipation when his brother’s voice, higher than softer than he’s heard in years, calls out _just a minute._ The whiskey’s all but worn off and Dean’s calm cool facade is seconds from crumbling.

There’s an interesting, almost comical, procession of expressions that cross Sam’s face when he opens the door. In a matter of seconds there’s surprise, elation, confusion, _extreme_ confusion, poorly disguised terror, and finally, curiosity cut with a healthy amount of suspicion.

“Dean?”

“Hiya, Sammy. Gonna invite me in?”

* * *

Dean explains, best he can while leaving out almost all of the specifics, what he’s doing here and why he looks like he’s been through over a decade of hell since Sam last saw him (leaves out the actual, _literal,_ decades of hell, of course, no need to burden the kid with what’s to come). There’s silver and holy water and the Winchester version of a lie detector test, but eventually, Sam comes to accept that this is his older brother, his _older_ older brother, on shore leave from 2016.

Dean stretches out on the twin extra long bed as Sam regales him with stories of university life. It’s warm and clean smelling in the room and Sam’s baby soft voice lulls him into a comfortable sleepy doze. He wakes up a little later with Sam curled beside him, head resting right above Dean’s heart and arms slung across Dean’s chest. Dean wraps an arm around him and pulls him close, breathes deep and relishes the smell of Sam, young and pure and no hints of gun smoke or soot or blood, and his heart lurches in his chest for this fresh faced, innocent version of his brother, one he hasn’t seen since the next time he’ll visit him here.

“Dean?” Sam asks, his voice low and thick from sleep, “you… you sniffing me, dude?” There’s a hint of amusement in his tone and Dean would be embarrassed if not for the fact that, yes, he kinda was.

“Miss you like this, Sammy, all young and…” he trails off because there’s really no way to finish that sentence without making Sam think the next decade and a half of his life are going to suck. Of course, it kinda will, especially on paper, but Dean likes to think there’s a whole lot of good in it too, for both of them.

Sam catches on, of course, “Dean, does… does something happen to me? I mean, I’m not…?”

“You’re not dead Sammy. No, no you know I wouldn’t let that happen.  You’re- you’re ok. Listen, you know I can’t say a whole lot about what’s gonna come. Hell I shouldn’t even be here. And I can’t, I ain’t got much to say, really. I just wanted, I just, I need…”

He’s not making much sense but Sam understands anyway, shushes him and snuggles closer, so close he’s basically on top of Dean, “Well if we can’t talk…” he says with a quirk of his eyebrow, “ _maybe_ there’s something else we can do?”

Dean’s always been thankful for Sam’s smarts, for his ability to instinctively know what Dean needs and his inclination to offer it up. Dean knows it’s another bad idea, but not any worse than coming here in the first place was, and hell, maybe there’s days when he’d be strong enough to resist Sam’s sleep warm body pressed this close to his, but today sure ain’t one of them.

* * *

Dean flips them over, a difficult maneuver in the narrow bed, but worth it for Sam’s surprised huff of breath and the bright smile that follows. Dean dips down for a kiss and Sam opens up for him, supple lips and smooth skin glide against Dean’s stubbled chin and his hands slip up under Sam’s t-shirt.  

Sam’s been mostly muscle since age fourteen, but it’s changed over the years. Sam like this, he’s trim, wiry. His abs and pecs are well defined but Dean can feel the protrusion of his ribs as well, lets his knuckles skim over them and Dean’s overcome with a desire to _see._ He kneels back long enough to push Sam’s shirt up and dips back down, inspecting the pristine skin. No scars or cuts or splotches of purple or yellowing bruises, just pale skin peppered with moles and fine peach fuzz. Dean can’t help but rub his lips everywhere, tongue darting out here and there to taste the sweet clean skin. He scrapes over a nipple with his teeth and Sam’s hands wrap around the back of his head, holding him close.

“Dean, please.” Sam arches up and his dick is rock hard and pressing insistently against Dean’s hip. Dean has to chuckle, at his age he isn’t used to being ready to go so soon, but damn if having eager twenty year old Sam begging beneath him isn’t speeding things up a little.

“Got you, Sammy. Got you.”

He’s not going to fuck him, the way Sam’s whining and grinding into him, Sam wouldn’t last long enough for it, and Dean’s not sure if Sam has lube laying around his dorm room anyway. He kneels back again, kisses a trail down his belly, stops at the elastic of Sam’s boxers and noses along the skin there from hip to hip.

“ _Deannn…”_ Sam whines again and Dean takes pity on him, tugs at the waistband until it slips down over Sam’s cock and takes the head in his mouth in one fluid motion. He wraps his hand around the base and sinks down and Sam comes before he can make it back up again. Dean gentles him through it, suckles lightly and sends shivering aftershocks through Sam’s entire body until Sam gently nudges him off.

“Dean, _lemme_ …” Sam slurs it a little, lazy and boneless from his orgasm but reaching for Dean’s belt once they’re face to face again.

“Shh, Sammy. Just relax right now, we’ll worry about me later.” His cock is throbbing in his pants but he knows when _later_ comes he’ll already be gone. It sounds silly but he doesn’t want anything like that _from_ Sam, not this Sam, anyway, just wants to take care of him, cradle him and sooth him and marvel in him. So he does. Sam’s groggy enough to go along with it, rests his head back over Dean’s heart and curls in close.

“Dean?” he asks, voice sounding like he’s on the very edge of falling asleep, “you really here, or am I dreaming?”

“Really here, brother,” he answers, “right here with you.” He runs his fingers through Sam’s shaggy hair and drops a kiss on his forehead. The last bit of tension seeps out of Sam’s body a few minutes later and Dean knows he’s fallen asleep.

* * *

Dean takes some time just to lie there, knows he can linger for forty five minutes or so until Sam’s deep in his sleep cycle, so he does. Just looks at Sam, stares and catalogues all the differences, big and small, between this Sam and the Sam waiting for him back in 2016. Hair’s shorter but just as soft. Mouth is a little fuller now, jaw not quite as square. He sleeps the same, though, lips slightly parted, little puffs of air escaping in _not quite_ snores, nose scrunching and twitching occasionally like something’s tickling it. _Adorable,_ Dean would think, if he thought those kind of things.

He slips out unnoticed and feels a pang of guilt. Maybe Sam will think it was all a crazy dream. Maybe he’ll be sad or pissed off, but Dean knows if he doesn’t leave before Sam wakes up, he may never have the strength to go. He’s precious, this Sam, young and smooth and meant to be handled tenderly. To be cherished. But not by him, not _this_ version of him, anyway, those days have past. 

He takes one last look on his way out the door, though, and reminds himself that this Sam _is_ his, they all are. Reminds himself that when he gets back home, he should remember to handle his Sam a little more tenderly, to cherish him a little more.


End file.
